The Victimised Offender

 

It's a fairly recent incident. The emergency door next to a politician in an aircraft opens. The slide chutes get automatically deployed. There is mayhem all over. Boarding is stopped, the plane is evacuated, safety protocol is followed, and the flight takes off after two hours. The poor politician is victimised. It transpires that his hand had "accidentally touched the door" because of which it had got "slightly disturbed from its position". It was not his fault that the flight was delayed. An elderly passenger even reportedly blessed the politician, "Beta (son), it is your karma and our karma that something mischievous didn't happen and you found out." See! Do you still need an explanation after that? If anything requires to be done at all, it is slapping a hefty penalty on the airline for installing such sensitive doors that open with just a touch.

Politicians and their relatives are often victimised. Their batchmates are not. I learnt it the hard way. My engineering batchmate happened to be the son-in-law of a minister. He often wore three-piece suits to the class but didn't waste time on studies or small talk with others. Our electrical engineering practicals were conducted in teams of two, and, guess what? He completed my team one day! Resigned to fate, I was doing everything alone. The suit-clad boy confined himself to noting down readings, taking tour of the laboratory, and fiddling with the controls of the idle apparatus. Suddenly, a bang brought me to a standstill. I looked around. There stood the desi dapper, next to a heavy duty induction motor with a freshly snapped lifting hook on its top, the remains of which dangled like an ominous pendulum from a chain on an overhead pulley! I walked to him and asked, "How did that happen?" "You did that, you should know!" he declared and walked away nonchalantly with hands thrust deep in his suit pockets.       

Talking of my engineering college days, I remember another batchmate. Belonging to the sports quota, he often talked about his escapades in the football field. I was always eager to watch him play and score a goal. It took a long wait of eight months for the fulfilment of my wish. I started watching the match from a vantage spot. My batchmate's team attacked three or four times in the initial fifteen minutes, but he wasn't a part of the assault team. So, where was he? It took me some time to spot him, much behind others and limping in pain. He didn't play that match further. Or, matches in the next, or the next, or the next year. In the world of uncertainty, injury to this star player in every match was certain. He passed his engineering course without playing a single game in full. What could he do? A good player can defend himself against offensive players only to a reasonable extent.

The other day I had to travel in a friend's car. Our journey started with the car chassis rubbing the pavement with a loud noise and my friend cursing, "Oh! What was the need to park it so close?" The friend's spouse had parked the car the previous night. So far as I remember, the parking was perfect, exactly between the marking lines. The fault lay with the friend, who had taken a turn too early. But it was nothing new. In the past too I have travelled with this friend with the rear wheel riding rough over pavements, dividers, and other roadside structures. When my friend drives a vehicle, the front wheels obey traffic rules and the rear ones break it. I can hardly blame the friend for the democratic disposition of the wheels.

My residential complex houses about ninety families. Hardly a week passes when we are not awaken early in the morning by the smoke alarm. The alarm usually originates from the same flat every time. The occupants of the flat deny any wrongdoing and explain that Indian food cannot be cooked reasonably well without the emission of an impressive volume of smoke. So what if more than three quarter residents in the building are Indians who manage to cook food without triggering any alarm!

I am sure, you would be having your version of similar incidents to share. I wonder, why does it hurt our ego to accept that we, too, can be wrong? Even when we are sure about being wrong, why don't we acknowledge it? Some people perfect the act so well that they completely ignore facts and refuse parts of the situation that display their fault. Justification of crime under the shelter of religion has also become a norm these days. Some play the victim card so often that one gets bored of the repeated drama. The smarter ones manipulate others with overly emotional means, shift blame, and also earn a lot of sympathy. And then, there is always a bunch of rogues who silence critics by shouting, gaslighting, telling outright lies, accusing, diverting attention, and arguing about the argument!

Beware of the colleague, who, in the name of helping, takes you to the boss and says with a smirk, "Sir, my colleague here wants such and such facility in spite of my telling ..." It is a win-win situation for the smarty. If the boss rejects the request, the smarty earns brownie points for having already warned you, and if the boss accepts the request, the smartass gets projected as an excellent team player.

A clever guy always used to keep some stupid staff under him. The purpose? Whenever something went wrong, he used to pass the blame on to the poor chaps. The sacrificial goat was replaced every time and the clever guy used to go scot free. The trick worked successfully for many years.   

It's not uncommon to find people who blame others. And it's also not uncommon to find people who don't trust such narcissists and even hate them. You can be honest about yourself, accept the reality, acknowledge your weaknesses, and find ways for improvement. Or, you can continue doing injustice to yourself and block avenues for improvement. Decide, what would you like to be? The victimised offender, or the honest human?

The Blind Follower

            A professor was praising an individual. Having committed several blunders, the individual, in my opinion, did not deserve to be idolised. As I tried to present my views, the professor remarked, "I see! So, you follow his opponent."

How conveniently was I labelled as an "opponent" of the individual! And, that too, by a learned person. I changed the topic, but the experience left me wondering: why do people find it so easy to idolise people? Why can't they examine, accept and appreciate people like normal human beings? Why can't they accept healthy criticism? Why is it necessary for one to belong to a particular camp? Why can't one be neutral, in possession of one's senses?

 

I find it very amusing when someone claims, "My daddy is the best in the world!" What makes them release such a ridiculous statement? Have they met all the daddies in the world? Obviously, no! Such exaggerations please whom? What purpose do they serve? Who are they fooling?

"Best daddy in the world" is just an example. Replace "daddy" with the name of a politician, boss, sports person, movie personality, guru, writer, etc., and it would still ring true to many of us. Isn't it funny?

It is funnier when one realises that the idoliser has little idea about the object of worship, and most of the notions are misplaced. Many people take offence when I say that Vivekananda smoked cigarettes and ate mutton and fish. I am labelled mad when I declare that George Eliot was actually a woman, or that Lata Mangeshkar was also a music composer, or that Milkha Singh didn't get the title of Flying Sikh from an Indian but from Ayub Khan, the dictator of Pakistan. I can go on and on, but I am sure you get what I am hinting at.

Rather than examining the merit of an idea, we look at its originator. So many items I have witnessed people rubbish an idea, only to eulogise it moments later on realising that it is the brainchild of someone they hold in high esteem. 'Who' is saying should not matter, 'what' is being said should. However, it is generally the other way round. We feel compelled to follow the successful. We don't follow ideas, we follow people. We don't discuss ideas, we discuss people.

What makes us blindly follow a personality, in spite of knowing that success is temporary and fads become outdated? Today's heroes often turned out villains tomorrow. So many swamis of yesteryears are today branded as rascals.

Desmond Morris has brilliantly analysed the psychological aspects that make us find comfort in becoming part of a group and being identified as members of powerful sects. It is an easy way to stay safe and gain recognition, wealth, and power. Inability to make own decisions also forces people to follow the majority around them. Mediocrity and lack of intelligence, knowledge, courage, confidence and risk-taking ability compel people to blindly follow others. Peer pressure and fears of failure, suppression and ridicule also contribute to the phenomenon. Gradually, people lose sense and start believing everything that their idol says. Some readers may be aware of the Stockholm syndrome, under the influence of which hostages start sympathising with their captors and the abused start admiring their abusers. The so-called idols use the followers for selfish gains. Scams thrive on the weakness of the human mind to avoid complexities and follow the easiest route.

            Blind followers always suffer. It is not necessary to be in a camp. Some of the greatest achievers such as Tagore, Einstein and CV Raman were so different from each-other. So, why copy? Why not be rational? Don't underestimate yourself, my friend. Be original and earn respect. You deserve it!

            Believe me, it is possible. It has been proved so many times.

Work-Life Balance

 

I avoid Gurus. They oversimplify issues and make the sufferer feel like a fool. 

Two all-time-greats, Amitabh Bachchan and Kapil Dev, recently expressed similar opinions about work-related stress. Amitabh Bachchan was hosting the television serial Kaun Banega Crorepati and Kapil Dev was participating in some public event. Amitabh Bachchan said that he does not get overloaded with work and is able to enjoy private time at home, while admitting that he also reads scripts and proposals there. Kapil Dev was astonished at the depression and tension felt by some modern cricketers and said that if they find it too difficult to handle, they should stop playing the game.

 

Amitabh Bachchan and Kapil Dev are not common folk. While Mr Bachchan was the top hero of Hindi cinema for several years, Mr Dev is credited with single-handedly engineering India's first World Cup title in cricket some decades ago. These two greats had access to the best systems and facilities. While they might have had official engagements on birthdays, anniversaries, and other important days, it is also possible that their near and dear ones and staff might have accompanied them on many such occasions, a privilege not enjoyed by most of us.

Work-related stress and work-life imbalance are not figments of imagination. They are there for even the mightiest to experience. It's a different matter that some ignore them, some suffer in silence, and only a few muster courage to be open about it.

Though most working people experience the syndrome, those in the vocation of their choice complain the least. A musician may practise for hours without getting tired, a painter may not come out of the studio for days and yet not get bored, and a journalist may lose the track of time in the flow of events. Separated from mundane realities, intellectuals are happiest when engrossed in their own world. The same is also true with those engaged in manual labour with specific tools—the tailors, the carpenters, the plumbers, etc. Work of choice can keep one occupied enough to skip meals and events, forget birthdays and anniversaries, and yet enjoy a feeling of accomplishment. In a way, Mr Bachchan and Mr Dev are right; work-life balance is a matter of perception. While script-reading may be work for others, it is not so for Mr Bachchan. Similarly, practising cricket and analysing the game for hours may be part of home routine for Mr Dev.

Am I contradicting myself?

No! A harsh reality is that one rarely gets a job of choice! And, in the exceptional event of one getting it, retaining it proves elusive most of the times. One is forced to compromise today or tomorrow. Stress and work-life imbalance become a reality for such people.

The point is, can the encroachment of work in personal life become bearable?

To come to an answer, let us first examine some factors contributing to work-life imbalance.

Surfeit of Communication

A line manager received a call from her boss at night. The manager's shift had ended hours ago, and only the night shift employees were working at the time. The boss complained, "Just now I saw our customer service executive over the CCTV. Why does he have such a grim face? Why can't he smile?"

The manager responded, "But the office hours are over for clients. The executive must be sitting alone, completing paperwork."

The boss remarked, "So what, if he is alone? Shouldn't a customer service executive smile all the time?"

The manager mumbled an apology, spoke to the executive the next morning, and reported back to her boss.

The incident left an ugly mark on the psyche of the manager. She changed jobs at the first opportunity.

A good percentage of communication is pure garbage. The proportion is increasing as time passes. Even the most balanced person can get disturbed by damaging communication. Do we really need to get affected by such garbage? Can't we make better use of time?       

Encouragement to Demands

As the yet-to-be-three years old rubbed sleep out of her eyes, the grandmother asked, "What do you want for breakfast? Boiled eggs or an omelette?"

Minutes later, breakfast was served to the girl. She was not happy, though. It should have been served in a pink plate, she urged. The plate was replaced, and the girl proceeded with eating the breakfast. While eating, she kept on directing the exact Peppa Pig episode to be played alongside.

Can a three-year-old be trusted to know what is best for her?

Exposure to the Glamorous Side of Peers

Times are tough, and who doesn't need a dependable friend in tough times? It's natural to get close to sincere friends, but the closeness comes at a price. Unknowingly, an unfair comparison begins. They use that perfume, and we? They use that car, and we? Their furniture is like that, and ours? Their income must be so much, and ours? Their children go to that school and attend those hobby classes, and ours? They eat at that restaurant and spend vacations at that place, and we?

You are bound to find some areas where 'they' are superior, make efforts to come out better, or feel bitter.   

Indecision and Self-doubt

You decide to host a party at a particular place and fine-tune the guest list, only to feel that you could have enjoyed it better if 'X' was replaced with 'Y'. You paint your house in a favourite shade, only to realise that it doesn't look appealing enough. You pay through your nose to buy a flat, only to repent that you had overlooked certain shortcomings. You accept employment with great enthusiasm, only to notice that the job is not as cosy as you had initially thought.   

            Sounds familiar? Do happy stories often have tragic endings in your case?

Promising Beyond Capability

The boss asks, "Will you submit the report by 6pm, today?" And you respond, "Yes!"

The facts are: your staff leaves at 4:30pm, the research material is not available, the copier does not have blank sheets, and you will miss an important engagement unless you leave the office at the scheduled hour of 5:30pm. Yet, you agree, because you need that job and can't work under an annoyed boss. You can't even tell the boss about the absence of staff, the lack of material, the shortage of stationery, or your personal engagement. You fear that the boss may consider you as incompetent and think about replacing you. 

            The result? Either you fail to submit the report in time, or come up with a far-from-ideal document, making the boss and yourself dissatisfied, not to talk of the missed important engagement.     

            I am sure, you can add many more stress and imbalance contributing factors from your own experience. Please do so and share with other readers, while I try to find ways to make the impact more bearable.

Manage Expectations

You are no superpower. Even the champions get defeated. Don't brag about yourself and fall in a self-made trap. Never commit unless you are pretty sure of honouring the commitment. Learn to say no to impossible demands. Remember, people only hear what they wish to hear. So, stop making statements such as, "Yes, I will try to submit the report ...," "I will try to come home by ...," "I will buy that gift for you if ...," etc. At the outset, say, "At the moment it appears difficult to ... because of ...," giving logical reasons. If you are still able to crack it, everybody will be happy. Otherwise, you will feel less stress and guilt.

Accept Limitations

You are unique. It's not pep talk but a fact of life. If you still need a proof, try to find out another person who has the same finger prints as yours. Stop trying to match that happy person in your neighbourhood, or that smart worker in the office, or that crowd puller in social gatherings. Everybody has their own problems. It's just that you don't know about it.

            Be sincere in your approach, and respect yourself for it. Brooding over others' successes or own failures doesn't help beyond a certain extent.

Manage Time

Don't draw your schedule too tight. Keep some margin for unexpected developments. Also remember, things can go wrong unexpectedly. Be prepared for that.

            That reminds me of a Japanese officer in an Indian company. He had a habit of starting ten minutes early to attend meetings, though it hardly took two minutes to reach the venue and get organised. When asked about it, the man replied, "I invariably have to stop and talk to people on my way. It would be impolite to just wave and keep walking, so I stop, tell them that I am going to a meeting, and take proper leave."  

Prioritise and Sacrifice

Survival, health, happiness, and security are important for us. There are bound to be instances when meeting a deadline is essential for the survival of our or our employer's business. Submission of a tender, attending a surgery, etc., fall in this category. Undergoing regular health check up, exercising, etc., contribute to one's physical health. Going to a movie or a party, taking care of dependents, etc., affect happiness. Finally, managing investments and paying taxes help one in the long run. One must have the common sense to calmly sacrifice the lesser crucial work to fulfil the more important responsibility. With a pragmatic approach and flexibility, one can find alternate ways to meet the less important commitments and still derive pleasure. Remember, it's the small things in life that often give unexpected happiness!   

Prepare Thoroughly

You can save tremendous efforts and rework by understanding and interpreting stated and implied requirements. Develop the habit of reading between the lines, and prepare fully. The approach will enable you to deliver more than expected, both at work and at home.

Rethink and Change

If, in spite of sincerely trying, you are not able to maintain a healthy balance between work and life, rethink and change. Yes, it may be time to change your travel arrangement, house help, vehicle or route, house, lifestyle, pet, or even the job or the spouse. You live only once, and there is no point in getting tormented when you can alleviate the suffering through some action.

The Final Days

 

Is death always sudden, as most of us believe, or does it issue a veiled warning about its impending visit? I am describing below my observations of four incidents over a span of thirty years. The names have been withheld to respect individual privacy. Do you have something to share on the topic? I would love to read that!

I

She looked at the ceiling. It must have been white years ago, some bright patches nestled among the brown, the yellow, and the red revealed.

"Red?" She looked at the blood bag stand near her bed.

Her son caught her eye, "Do you need anything?"

"Some water, please!" She ran her tongue over her lips. She could taste dried blood.

Her husband looked at her with irritation. She wasn't sure whether the irritation was due to her illness or his inability to attend office. He was a key official in the office of the HRD minister PV Narasimha Rao, the second ranking guy in the government that ran India. He was on good terms with Arun Nehru, Mohsina Kidwai, Krishna Sahi, Ram Dulari Sinha and Yogendra Makwana—all ministers, holding different portfolios.

Her thoughts drifted to her father. Though Baba belonged to the illustrious Vivekananda family and was also distantly related to Subhas Bose, he never took undue advantage of his descendance.

On similar lines, her husband never asked for favours, even if it meant watching his wife rot unattended in a shoddily run government hospital with crumbling infrastructure and hardly any doctors, nurses, or janitors. She kept losing blood with stool and vomits, and the hospital kept on replenishing it. The treatment started and ended with that.  

Things changed with the arrival of her younger son. She was shifted to a referral hospital with better conditions. Tests were conducted, doctors checked her condition regularly, and a nurse always remained in the line of sight. Regardless, her fever continued and so did the blood loss and the blood transfusion.

She lost the count of days.

One morning, a friend's daughter offered her dhoklas. She appreciated the gesture, and tried a piece. It smelt and tasted of blood. Later, she could not touch the lunch provided by the hospital, as usual.

The doctor looked at the untouched food and asked, "What would you prefer to eat? You will get well only if you start eating."

"Chicken," she murmured shyly.

Her husband remarked testily, "Eat! Have the will to fight the disease, to survive, to live."

She looked at him, and got lost in thoughts. As her husband went out to have a small consultation with the doctor, she confided in her younger son, "Your father wants me to have the will to fight the disease, to survive, to live. Why? For what? For whom?"

Hers was an empty nest. The children lived hundreds of miles apart, with their own families, in different cities. The husband was home only in the nights on working days. The loneliness had eaten her up. Though just 54, she had lost the desire to live.

Her son was trying to come up with a reply. She stopped him with an impatient wave of hand, "Take care of your father after I am gone. And tell him not to lose his temper so often. Among you three, only you can do it." Her assertiveness had a tone of finality. "I am happy that each of my three children donated blood for me, but your wife's brother should not have done so. I don't know how will you return his debt!" Her eyes were fixed on the son.   

Two young doctors arrived and cheerfully announced, "Get ready. We will now take you for an endoscopic test."

The test took much more time than usual. She returned exhausted. She had difficulty in breathing. Every time she tried to draw in breath, she shook with a bout of cough and sprayed a thick mist of dark blood all around.

Ten minutes later, the blood choked her to death.

II

"All trash," he folded the newspaper and kept it aside on the bench. He looked around. Children were playing. Hawkers were selling their wares. Housemaids were flitting in and out of homes. Most people, having eaten their breakfast, were basking in the winter sun like him.

His house stood on the southern periphery of the park. The two-storey building had provided shelter to so many people! His three daughters were married from that house, the wedding tent being pitched right at the same spot where he was sitting now.

He lived comfortably, but never attempted to adopt a lavish lifestyle. Why fly when you can go by the train? Why buy an expensive shoe when a cheaper one serves the purpose? Why eat out, pay through your nose, and spoil your stomach with the over-spiced food? Were the wedding feasts and birthday bashes not enough to keep one satiated through the year?

Communism was the most desirable political option for him. One must contribute to the society till one survives. How the times had changed! Many things were either useless or totally phoney now. Political leaders were idiots, award-winning writers owed their successes to their proximity to some influential person, cinema directors produced rotten stuff, and cricket players were selected on the whims of the authorities.

There had been no retirement for him. Regardless of the remuneration, he had been taking jobs and even at the age of eighty was a regular employee. He would have been editing something today, had it not been a holiday on account of a festival.

He loved festivals. They reminded him of his younger days. The joys were so simple then! The food tasted so good! Wearing a new dress made one so happy, though few could afford new dresses on every festival. He rarely wore new clothes. To think of it, he had never purchased a car or a two-wheeler. The public transport or the common office vehicles had never failed him. It's true that his wife owned some jewellery, but the quantity was modest. Just the other day he had shown her the diary having the locker number and details of investments. She should not face inconvenience once he departs.              

It was time for lunch. He picked up the newspaper and walked slowly towards his house. The taste of the breakfast still lingered in his mouth. He would have a simple khichdi today. And after that, he would have the luxury of enjoying a siesta.

Post lunch, his wife started snoring in one room, his son in another. The house-help was singing and cleaning the utensils, "Ga ga ga ga pat pat pat pat ..." He felt the urge to go to the toilet. These days he had to visit the loo a number of times, most visits being unproductive. Even fifteen minute-long ordeals, puffs of cigarettes, doses of laxatives and spoonfuls of isabgol were usually ineffective.

He quickly made it to the bathroom. He strained. No evacuation. The festive breakfast and lunch were making things difficult. He strained again. Gas, but no solid. He strained again. Nothing.

Drenched with sweat, he emerged slowly from the bathroom and lied down next to his wife. "Holidays are bad. One overeats and falls sick. I will be much better in the office tomorrow," he thought. The 'fixed auto' would pick him up with his tiffin box at quarter to nine. He would have his simple lunch at the office, and return home at three with a perfectly normal stomach.

His discomfort grew. Breathing was becoming an effort now.

His son sensed it. "What's wrong?" he snarled. He meant well, yet always snarled out of habit.

He mumbled something in reply.

An auto-rickshaw was hailed and he was taken to the hospital. This was the first time he had covered a distance of a few hundred yards in a vehicle. The doctors started questioning him. He got irritated. In spite of being a tolerant and soft-spoken person, he burst out, "Why are you wasting time on stupid questions? Can't you see that I am unable to breathe?"

He was wheeled into the ICU. His son waited outside, to be joined gradually by other relatives. They looked at every doctor and nurse with questioning eyes. Finally, a doctor came out to speak to them.

He was no more. A lethal heart attack had finished him.

III

"Shut that off," said the woman, leaving the daughter-in-law astonished. She looked at the device and switched off the religious song. The woman had always participated enthusiastically in religious ceremonies, observed fasts, and enjoyed devotional music. Today's was the first instance when such music had failed to soothe her eighty-two year old nerves.

But then, this was not the only 'first.' She had always been fond of her brothers and especially held the eldest one in high esteem, only to have minimum eye contact in their last meeting. She surprised him by calling him by name, which was another 'first.' The same brother had broken the news about her cancer being in the terminal stage in their last meeting.

She was no longer the friendly and curious person who could hold long conversations even with complete strangers. Her last such act ended with the return of the valuables to a village woman a month ago. She had now started turning her back and feigning sleep on the visits of close relatives. She didn't need anyone now, not even her third daughter who lived far away. Why to disturb the schedule of busy people? She had to go, and she would go as peacefully as possible. She willed herself to not die on the festival of colours and dampen the spirits of the youngsters in the years to come.

The doctors had seen no point in keeping her at the hospital. Her son, a doctor himself, had arranged for medical assistance at home. At the end of the week the medical guy had recommended disconnection of all life support systems. "Let us not hold her back and prolong her suffering," he had said.

She didn't open her eyes the next morning. Her breathing became heavy, stopping and resuming abruptly. The strange sound of her laboured breathing reverberated for a while, and then she shuddered, followed by complete silence. Her doctor son peered into her eyes with a torch, and gave a sad nod of head.

She had passed with no sign of fear or pain.

IV

The ambulance was moving fast. The siren was blaring, "Wee-woo, wee-woo, wee-woo."

He looked at the two boys sitting inside. The elder one was engrossed deep in thoughts. The younger one looked at him, "Are you in pain, Nanaji?"

He was not their Nana (grandfather). Twenty years ago he had given shelter to the elder boy, who, as an infant, was fighting a losing battle with illness due to abject poverty. He had gradually ended up supporting the boy's entire family, including a grandmother who must have been in her late seventies. Both boys were now graduates, both were employed.

 "Had god not brought me on the scene, they would perhaps have not survived or would have become petty criminals like their elders," he surmised.

He hated staying in hospitals. He had never spent a night in a hospital after surviving cancer thirty-nine years ago, but this year was proving to be different. He had been in and out of hospitals a number of times in the past four months.

Hospitals were so restrictive! Chewing pan with tobacco was not permitted there. Without exception, they inserted a catheter in the vein of the hand and connected it to some stupid bag on a nearby stand. It was so painful! Once he had torn open the contraptions and tried to escape late in the night, but was caught by the security staff. He had been strapped to the bed mercilessly. There was so much blood everywhere!

It wasn't that he didn't respect doctors. He did, except when hallucinating under the impact of drugs. On his last visit he had guessed that his doctor was about a hundred-and-twenty years old. His son had initially not believed him, but when he had pointed out the gracefulness of the doctor, the son had given in. He had also asked whether his father had come to the hospital. The son had, again, acted confused (his father had died decades ago).

A pacemaker was installed in his body on that visit, and after that everything had been fine. He was certain that there was nothing serious to worry about, but the two boys didn't appear to understand. Wasn't it ironic that he, a respected author, was being forced to act on the stories created by the doctors!

He was admitted to the hospital. His sons had already been informed with the usual "nothing major to worry about" refrain. The elder son arrived the same night. The doctor confided, "He doesn't have much time left. Please call all who wish to see him one last time."

The younger son was taking the noon flight the next day. No other flight was available. The mother and sisters of the two boys came to the hospital. The man looked at them and observed, "I am going now." A drop of tear trickled down his cheek.

The next morning his son visited him in the ICU. He was eager to convey something, but the oxygen mask and the hearing impairment of the son made the exercise futile. The son spoke to the doctor and started waiting in the lounge.

The son's name was announced on the PA system at 11:55. He had passed away. The younger son's plane started taxiing around the same time.

The younger son was devastated to find the father gone. His trust on "nothing major to worry about" had proved to be misplaced. He looked at his father's lifeless body and started reading aloud from a religious book. There were some striking similarities between the statements in the book and the expressions of his father.

Amazed, he looked at the lifeless body. The half-open eyes were fixed on the younger son. A faint smile played on the lips that would never speak again—exactly as described in the death scene of his award-winning book.